


Lilacs, Wisteria

by DarthNickels



Series: The Trees Sweetly Blooming [4]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, Shell Shock, Slice of Life, Spanish flu, Thomas is mean to a 7-year-old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: May 1919. The house with big lilac bushes and hanging wisteria hasn't had tenants for months-- until now.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay
Series: The Trees Sweetly Blooming [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581772
Comments: 16
Kudos: 126





	Lilacs, Wisteria

**Author's Note:**

> Things looked really different in the world when I drafted some of these scenes! Now they're not nearly as fun to read now! Look at the tags!
> 
> This is a largely OC driven story, which is not to everyone's taste. Usually me! Please do not read all the way to the end and then be mad at me because the content is like 80% OCs

“We’ll have neighbors soon,” Mummy announced at breakfast. Daddy didn’t look up from his paper.

“What, here?”

“Next door,” she said, crossly. “Mrs. Grisham told me she found a new tenant for the house.” She paused— “are you not at _all_ curious?”

“Of course, dear,” Daddy said, reaching blindly for his teacup. “Please continue.”

“A young gentleman—a man of some means, from how she talked— and just out of the army.”

“Plenty of those, these days. Newlywed, I suppose?”

“No—not much of a household. Just him and a manservant.”

“Hmm. He’ll be rattling around in that house.”

“He’ll want a cook. Mrs. Grisham asked if I knew anyone looking for work—Maggie might have a cousin...”

“I imagine he can post his own advertisement. No need to meddle.”

Mummy gave him a strange look over her teacup. “He was at Oxford before the war. Finishing his studies at the Royal College.”

“Why—” Daddy paused, then put his paper down at last. “Ah. Poor devil.”

“He’s very young for it. And moved such a long way…”

“You _are_ planning to meddle.”

“I must,” Mummy said, primly. “ I have a civic duty.”

They went back and forth, and Birdie was nearly bursting with questions—was the man next door in the War? Did he see many terrible battles? What does that mean, ‘he’s young for it’? What’s it like at Oxford? Why’s he live in a house like theirs but all by himself?

But she had not yet been invited to speak, and asking out of turn might have meant she was No Longer Welcome at the breakfast table, and soon enough her mind wandered to faraway places she had read about but never been—Flanders, King’s College, the Dardanelles…

But then it was time for school, and she trudged with bookbag slung over her shoulder, the prospect of neighbors entirely forgotten.

* * *

She didn’t remember how things were before the war, although everyone assured her it was Different now. She remembered Mummy crying, saying _your_ _Daddy’s going away for quite a long time, oh kiss him, kiss him goodbye_— she remembered when he came home in his khaki jacket with silver crowns on the sleeves and she marveled at them, reverently tilted them so they caught early morning sunlight while he read the paper, and said she wanted more than anything to have a khaki jacket with silver crowns on the sleeves—

_You’ll be waiting a long time to be a lady Major, my dear_, he told her.

But she told him stubbornly that yes she would, she wanted silver crowns and a red cross on all her clothes, and he relented and said she could be an army nurse and win a medal with a navy bow for being very brave—

_Brave like you are? _

_ Oh no— much braver than that_, he said, but he smiled as if it took real effort to turn his mouth up at the corners.

Then the war was over for good and Daddy was back, and she had lots and lots of questions about France and Belgium and the Hun but Mummy told her very sternly that she was Not Allowed to ask and Expressly Forbidden to bring it up. Nearly every question was inappropriate, or unsuitable, and she wondered if she would be sent up to bed without supper for being curious about _anything_.

Which is why she thought it was unfair that Mummy was now peering through the curtains, trying to catch a glimpse of the new neighbors.

“Birdie, for heaven’s sake, don’t be obvious,” she said. “You can look but keep your head down.”

She crouched low on the couch, peeking over the edge—there was a taxi parked in front of the house next door, and a man with dark hair lifting an enormous suitcase off the back. He disappeared inside the house and came back, cupping his hand to his mouth—when he pulled it away, she saw him blow out a long stream of smoke.

“That must be his man,” Mummy said, wrinkling her nose. “Terrible habit.” She turned away, like she was giving it up, but started: “Oh—! There he is—”

The door to the taxi opened, and she saw another man ease out—nearly unfolding himself, all knees and elbows, putting up a careful hand and ducking beneath the roof—

“What’s that?” she asked, craning her head for a better look.

“Don’t ask silly questions, he walks with a cane.”

“But why—?”

“Birdie, dear, that man is _blind_,” Mummy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Then how—?”

“It’s very rude to pry,” Mummy stopped her before she could even finish. “And I absolutely _forbid_ you to pester that poor man.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she insisted, her feelings hurt.

“I mean it. Don’t disgrace yourself with a show of bad manners.”

Birdie was so cross that she went up to her room and didn’t come down until dinner.

* * *

The house next door had been empty for quite some time, and Birdie had become accustomed to coming and going as she pleased. She hiked her skirts to her knees and threw her leg over the stone wall, balancing like a cat, walking one-foot-in-front-of-the-other on the top. There were bushes lining the sides of the house, wild and overgrown, and she crawled through the green tunnel with her book tucked under her arm until she arrived at her secret spot.

It would not remain secret for long.

There was a shaft of bright sunlight as the branches were wrenched apart, and the dark-haired man loomed over her. He was pale and didn’t look friendly at all.

“Can I help you?” he asked, but didn’t sound like he meant to be very helpful at all.

“No,” she replied, “thank you,” and went back to her book.

The man did not leave.

“Listen here, little Missy,” he said, reaching down to pluck her book from her fingers, ignoring her cry of protest. “This isn’t a public park. Go find yourself a bench to sit on instead of living like a tramp under a bush.”

“I’m not a tramp!” she said, indignantly. “Give it back!”

“Thomas!” there was another voice, somewhere behind the bushes. “Who on earth are you talking to?”

“Our own Mata Hari,” Thomas said, over his shoulder. She didn’t know what she meant, but she knew a smile like that meant it Wasn’t Very Nice. “A little German spy.”

“What on earth are you talking about? Is someone there?”

“I’m not a spy!” she said, indignantly. “I’m Elizabeth Lytton and I live next door!”

She saw his hand first, searching for and grasping Thomas’ shoulder, and leaning into view.

“Enchanté, Mademoiselle,” the man said. Mummy had told her not to be rude but she was staring and couldn’t make herself stop. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Lytton-Who-Lives-Next-Door. My name is Edward and I live at this door.”

“People call me Birdie,” she blurted. “What happened to your face?”

“Alright, that’s enough—” Thomas started, scowling, but Mr. Edward squeezed his shoulder.

“I refused to go to sleep at lights out,” he told her, severely, “and after being open too long my eyeballs fell right out of my face.”

“No they didn’t! That’s a lie!”

“It’s true. Thomas tried to put them back lickety-split but they’ve never been the same—and let that be a lesson to you, Miss Birdie,” he said, eyebrow arched.

“Barrow, if you would sir,” Thomas muttered under his breath.

“But—” she stopped short. Mummy was calling her, _Birdie! Birdie! Tea-time! _

“You’d better go,” Mr. Edward said.

“Make him give me my book back,” she said. Then: “please!”

“Thomas, really—”

“Confiscated it,” Thomas said, cool as cucumber, but he held out and she snatched it from his hands. “You can never tell with these types—”

_Birdie! For heaven’s sake, where’ve you gone? _

“Excuse me,” she said, and pushed between the two of them. She grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up as she ran, barely catching the words behind her:

_You don’t have to be cruel, you know, she’s just a little girl—_

_ She’s old enough to gossip. What if she sees something? And you, calling me Thomas…_

_ Well, it is your name—_

She was thinking about spies and secrets until she got in to bed, and shut her eyes tight long before she fell asleep.

* * *

Mr. Edward started his day while she was still having breakfast—she knew this because she saw him walk past the window every morning, usually with Thomas at his side. Mummy was giving Maggie the day’s instructions and Daddy read the paper, and Birdie watched the two men go by.

One morning, she waited so long that Mummy scolded her for running late, but didn’t see either of them. She didn’t pay any attention during her lessons, doodling leaves and petals in the margins of her books, until she could get home to investigate.

All the curtains on the house were drawn up tight—but that was normal, at least for Mr. Edward.

_It must be so gloomy in there_, Mummy tutted.

_The view’s no good to him_, Daddy shrugged.

Try as she might, Birdie couldn’t find any crack to peer inside. She crawled back beneath the bushes, past the side of the house and around the back—

Barrow was sitting on the back step, smoking a cigarette and wearing a pair of dark glasses. He lowered them, and they shared a single, suspended moment of mutual disbelief.

“Unlucky again,” he said, waving his hands to shoo her away. “Spycatcher’s on duty. Away with you, go on, shove off—”

“I’m not a spy,” she scowled.

“If you’re not a spy, then you’re a busybody, and that’s even worse. Does your mother know you’re here, crawling in the dirt?”

She stood, dusting off her skirts. “I was looking for you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because I was looking for Mr. Edward. He didn’t walk past this morning. And _you_ are wearing his glasses,” she said, punctuating her words with an accusing point.

Barrow took them off, looking at them with a sudden strange expression—fond, exasperated: “He forgets. Doesn’t like to wear them.”

“Why does he?”

“Because otherwise nosy people ask rude questions,” he said, pointedly.

She considered this. Then: “Sorry.”

“It’s not me you should be telling.” He pushed the glasses into his hair, and took another drag of his cigarette. “What’s it to you when we—he comes and goes? Tracking our movements, little spy? Watching our every move?”

“Grown-ups are all the same,” she huffed. “I notice things. I’ve got a brain.”

“You should use that more and your mouth less,” he countered.

“I’m not allowed either,” she nearly sulked. “I’m not allowed to say anything at all.”

He gave her a strange look, and blew out a long cloud of smoke. “And just what is it you’re just dying to say?”

“Did you really—” the words tumbled out of her like water from a burst dam: “—did you really have to put Mr. Edward’s eyeballs back in?”

Barrow grinned at her, nasty and toothy: “’Course I did. Picked them up, cleaned them off—” he blew into his hand, and then mimed polishing something on his shirt “—popped ‘em in, but they got mixed up, right and left, and that’s why they don’t work now.”

“Is that true?”

“Would I lie to you? Me, an honest working man?”

“Yes,” she said, darkly. Then— “You’re not doing any work now. Does Mr. Edward know you’re out here smoking and skivving off?”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself, tattle-tale?” he said, sharply. “Mr. Courtenay will return from his appointment after six.”

“Maybe I will!” she declared, and stormed off.

* * *

As much as she disliked his rude valet, Birdie felt she probably ought to apologize to Mr. Edward.

_I wouldn’t like it if a stranger asked what was wrong with my face_, she reasoned. Her nose was a bit crooked, and her eyes weren’t quite symmetrical, one sitting just a hair higher than the other. Pointing it out would spoil her whole day—she hoped most would politely ignored it, like Mummy was always telling her to do.

She found him sitting in the front garden, smoking a pipe and lost in thought. It occurred to her that she wasn’t really sure what to say—she was supposed to wait until she was spoken to—

But Mr. Edward—

“Who’s there?” he demanded, whipping around. He reached down and suddenly had his stick in hand. “What’re you lurking about for?”

“It’s me!” she squeaked.

“Who’s _me_—?” he paused. “Is it—Miss Birdie?”

“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled, not sure what to say to that.

“Ah!” he dropped his stick, and settled back into the chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She took a few steps forward, cautiously. “Barrow said I was rude,” she blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow. “He’s one to talk.”

“Mrs. Williams—she’s our cook—she made biscuits. I brought you one.” She held it out, then realized her error. She took his free hand, opened his fingers, and shoved the treat into his palm.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, softly. “There’s no need for that. Let’s split it, to show we’re even.” He had long, clever fingers and managed to split the biscuit perfectly in half, holding out her piece expectantly. She nibbled in silence for a moment. Then:

“Why don’t you sack Barrow, if he’s rude to you?”

He snorted. “He’s not without his charms.”

“He was skiving off and smoking the other day. I saw him.”

“He works so terribly hard,” Mr. Edward demurred. “I can hardly begrudge him a bit of slack.” He inclined his head towards her, expression serious: “I hope you aren’t in the habit of trying to get people sacked.”

“No,” she muttered. “But he’s not very nice.”

“Not at all, I’m afraid,” he said, with a secretive smile. “You gave him a fright, hiding in the bushes. Always on watch, that one.” He seemed to consider for a moment. “How about this: I’ll give you a password, for when you come back over the parapet, so you don’t alarm him.”

“What’s a parapet?”

“It’s—not important.” He tapped his jaw with a finger, thoughtfully. “What’s a special phrase you won’t forget? Or a secret call?”

“I can whistle!” she demonstrated—two long notes, then three short ones, which one of the boys in her school had shown her.

“Perfect. Next time, give a whistle, and let us know you’re here—otherwise he might panic and set fire to the lilacs.”

* * *

She got her chance to try the system out just a few days later, while climbing the branches of the big copper beech. She heard the back door open and shut, and looked down to see Barrow carrying something out to the work table.

She whistled, just like she said—two long blasts and three short ones—and he looked around, puzzled. She chucked a beechnut at him, and it whizzed past his head.

“There you are,” he said, craning his neck backwards. “Stuck, are you? Shall I call the firemen?”

She shimmied down the trunk, leaping from the last branch just to show him—and only at the last moment remembering to fix her skirt. “What’re you doing?”

“Got a stopped clock, ” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and fumbled for his light. By the time it was lit, she was at his side, carefully examining all the pieces.

“It’s a lot of work just to make it tick,” she said.

“’Tis,” he agreed. “And I’m very busy, so—”

“You forgot your other glove,” she said, pointing to his bare hand. He clenched his hand into a fist—reflexively, like he didn’t mean to.

“I only wear one,” he replied.

“When you work on the clocks?”

“All the time.”

“Why?”

“Because my hand is unsightly,” he grumbled around his cigarette.

“Are you disfigured?”

“Not a very nice thing to ask a bloke, is it?”

“Sorry. Are you?”

He heaved a heavy sigh. “I got shot.”

“In the war?”

“No, taking a stroll in Kirkbymoorside,” he said. Then, to her look of wide-eyed astonishment: “Of _course_ in the war, you goose!”

“Can I see it?”

He turned away from the clock and looked her up and down. “If I show you, will you leave me be?”

“Maybe.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well don’t cry about it when it turns your stomach,” he muttered, and pulled back his glove.

“Ew! It’s horrible!” It was like one of the drawings in the heavy books in Daddy’s office.

“You’ve hurt my feelings now,” he scowled, yanking his glove back down.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it. What happened?”

“Got shot,” he repeated.

“But how—?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, his voice tight. “If you stop asking about my hand, I will tell you whatever you want about this clock.”

She rocked back on her heels, considering for a long moment. “Okay,” she agreed. “Why outside?”

“Finally, a sensible question. See, the thing about a mechanism like this—" he launched into his explanation, and she leaned over his arm to get a better look.

* * *

“Oh, and Birdie,” Mummy said, “you’re having supper early with Maggie tonight, so remember to be in the kitchen before five o’clock.”

“Why!” she protested. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“You’re not being _punished_, my sweet, we’re having grown-up guests tonight,” Mummy dropped a sugar cube into her tea with a soft _plink_.

“I’m grown up!”

“Oh, darling,” Mummy said, “you will be soon. I’ve told Maggie to bring you a plate of trifle if you don’t complain, so if I were you I wouldn’t kick up a fuss.”

“But—” she started, but Mummy looked up from her tea with a sharp glance, and Birdie decided not to risk it.

“Surely she can make an appearance,” Daddy said, digging into a grapefruit. “It’s only the fellow from next door, not the Prince of Wales.”

“Mr. Edward!” she said, excitedly. “I know him!”

Mummy and Daddy looked at her as one. “Oh?” Daddy said, with just a ghost of a smile.

“How do you know _Mr. Courtenay_?” Mummy asked, less amused.

“I was out walking,” she lied, quickly. “We met outside the gate. He’s very nice.”

“I don’t see any harm in letting her make an appearance,” Daddy said, “as long as she is merely _seen_ and not _heard_.”

Birdie wrinkled her nose but didn’t protest—this was a test Daddy gave her, to see if she could be quiet.

“I mean it,” Mummy said. “Be polite to Mr. Courtenay and his man. Don’t get underfoot—and for heaven’s sake, don’t _pry_.”

Too late for that—but then, Mummy didn’t need to know. She only nodded, and bit into her toast.

* * *

Maggie answered the door, and Birdie crouched at the top of the stairs, peering between the railing.

“May I take your coat, sir?”

Barrow was peeling Mr. Courtenay out of his smart wool Ulster, and happened to look up. He raised an eyebrow.

“Look who it is,” he said, smugly. “A little bird.” Mr. Edward cocked his head.

“Miss Birdie?” he asked, turning his head back and forth.

“I’m up here!” she called.

“My word! You’re so quiet, I had no idea.”

“Maybe we should call her Mousie instead,” Barrow smirked.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Barrow glanced down the hallway, then back to her—and stuck out his tongue right back.

“Mr. Courtenay! Barrow! It’s good of you to come. Please, come in, have a drink…” Daddy waved them in, and Barrow put his hand on Mr. Edward’s elbow.

“This is where I leave you, sir,” he said, “I’ll be back around nine—”

“On the contrary, Barrow,” Daddy said, “I’ve heard that you and I were comrades under the red cross, and was rather hoping—”

Daddy didn’t get a chance to say what he hoped for. They put together later what happened: there was a pothole in the street, where the cobbles were cracked and craggly, and a taxi rolling by hit it just the right way and the right front tire exploded with a terrific _BANG!_

But at the time, what they knew is that there was an incredible noise outside and before she had time to put her hands over her ears Mr. Edward threw himself onto the ground and didn’t even try to catch himself, chest and face hitting the carpet because he threw his hands over his head and he was shouting GET DOWN EVERBODY GET DOWN—

Mummy came flying down the hallway, “What on earth is going on—” but Daddy put his hands on her shoulders and told her to “stay back, wait here, wait here—”

Barrow was crouched on the ground and he had one hand pressed against Mr. Edward’s back and he was saying, very softly, “you’re alright, the war’s over, we're not being shelled—” and she could barely hear him because Mr. Edward was still shouting, not words but frantic yells, and Barrow put one hand on his and pushed it into the carpet “Feel that? No fancy rugs in a dugout, is there? Easy—_easy_, it’s alright…”

She saw Mr. Edward’s fingers dig into the carpet, white knuckles set in pale hands—the cries tapered off, and now there was only the sound of ragged, heavy breathing. Barrow slipped an arm under his chest and slowly hauled him up to sitting. He was pale, chalk white and confused—like he still wasn’t entirely sure where he was.

Then he laughed—but not the way people laugh when something’s funny, but high and sharp: “I—I’m terribly sorry—ha-ha, look at me, windy as blazes—ha-ha-ha—"

“Here,” Daddy knelt down, and wrapped Mr. Edwards hands around a glass. “You’ve had a shock, this will steady your nerves—”

He put the glass to his lips and tipped it back, draining it in one go. The cut-crystal shook in his hands.

“Here,” Mummy had the bottle and poured him another drink, more this time. “Go on, a little tonic for your nerves—”

“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Edward was saying, “Ha-ha, what a display—got the windup, no reason at all, ha-ha—”

“Just drink,” Mummy assured him. He obeyed—slower, sipping and pausing to take long, shuddering breaths.

“You’ll be wanting a cigarette,” he said, turning his head. Birdie had almost forgotten about Barrow—he was pale, white as a sheet beneath dark hair.

“I’ll stay right here,” he said, but his voice shook.

“No—no, I’ll be fine. I know you’re dying for one. Just help me up—” he reached out his hand and Barrow took it, then hooked the other under his armpit and together—hauling and leaning—they got Mr. Edward to his feet. He patted Barrow’ arm: “Go on—you must be gasping.”

Barrow looked at him—like he didn’t want to leave at all—and she saw him give Mr. Edward’s arm a light squeeze.

“I’m only outside, sir,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Take your time,” Mr. Edward assured him, as Mummy took his arm.

“Please, Mr. Courtenay, come sit—”

Birdie had been quite forgotten in all the fuss. She supposed she should follow them into the parlor, and sit quietly like she’d been told—but the air was so thick with anxiety from the commotion, she wasn’t ready to sit silently and pretend to be invisible yet.

And Daddy wasn’t going to the parlor. He stepped outside, and forgot to close the door—

“You handled yourself well. Did you have many neurotic patients?”

“He’s not _neurotic_,” Barrow bit back, sharply. Daddy didn’t care for that kind of back talk—Birdie knew better than anyone.

“He’s been shell shocked,” he said—she was surprised to hear him sound calm. “You both were, by the look of things.”

“Not me sir, I’m sturdy as they come.”

Daddy didn’t agree. He took Barrow’ hand, the one clenching a cigarette, and held it up. His fingers were trembling badly. Barrow snatched his hand back, and puffing away, offended.

“You try spending a month on the Somme,” Barrow snapped. “He’s perfectly sane, it’s the rest of them that are lunatics—"

“I’m not suggesting anything—” Daddy said, holding his hands up, “and I certainly don’t mean to impugn your character—or that of your employer. I would only remind you that I am more familiar with these things than most. If you were in need of a sympathetic ear, my door is open.”

Barrow blew out a long stream of smoke, looking at the ground. “That’s decent of you, Dr. Lytton. Very generous. I’ll let Mr. Courtenay know.”

“I can tell him myself. Right now I’m talking to you.”

“I’m not looking for charity, _sir_,” Barrow said, coolly. “You can swap war stories with your own set.”

Birdie put a hand to her mouth. If Maggie or Mrs. Williams ever spoke like that, they’d get the sack for sure. Mr. Edward was nice, but how much could one let slide—?

Daddy was quiet for a long time.

“It’s clear that you’re the man for the job,” he said at last, his voice tight, “and you are still experiencing distress, so I’ll forget that little remark. My door is open, Barrow. We’ll hand over Mr. Courtenay around nine.”

“Very good sir,” Barrow’s words were polite, but his tone was very, very rude.

Daddy left him there, coming in and shutting the door—and noticed her at last.

“Dear girl,” he said. “I’d forgotten you were—” he looked at her, sharp, like he was thinking something over.

“So you can be quiet when you want,” he said, with a raised eyebrow. “Well done keeping your head. If you keep it up all the way through dinner, you can have your little interrogation— I’ll tell you everything you’re just dying to know.”

She held out her pinky, solemnly. “Promise,” she demanded.

Daddy gave her a rare smile and hooked his finger in her own.

* * *

_I trust you’re familiar with the expression, to be ‘knocked silly’? Well, during the war…_

Daddy tried to explain best he could—the big shells that fell out the sky with a terrible sound, an explosion that could throw people up into the air or knock them down on the ground without anything ever touching them—_its all shockwaves my dear, moving air, the force of the blast_—_it does funny things to the brain, and people become terribly confused—_

It was why men who before the war had been avid sportsmen became gun-shy, or they couldn’t stand any kind of sudden loud _bang_—the war had been over for some time, but sometimes them who had been there got mixed up and forgot—

“Or sometimes it brings back memories that are just a bit too much for some chaps,” he finished.

“Is that why I’m not allowed to ask you about France?”

He looked at her, suddenly lost for words. “You’re too clever for your own good,” he said, then stood and left without another word.

* * *

She thought she might be able to bring him round in a few days, and was on her Best Behavior, but Daddy was so terribly busy. He left just as she was coming down for breakfast and didn’t get home until she went to bed.

“It’s work, darling,” Mummy assured her. “Lots of people have taken ill.”

Birdie huffed into her tea.

* * *

“Oh, hello Miss Birdie,” Mr. Edward said, when they met again—he smiled, but his expression was tight and pained.

“Good morning,” she said. Daddy had instructed her to pretend as though nothing had happened, so instead she told him: “you ought to know there’s a magpie living in the big beech tree.”

“Is there?” he asked.

“Yes. I think there’s eggs in the nest but when I went to go look it flew into my face.”

Mr. Edward laughed, and the white scars at the edges of his eyes crinkled up.

“It’s not funny! It was tangled in my hair! I almost fell!”

“That’s what you get for raiding nests,” Barrow said, with a smirk.

“I wasn’t _raiding_,” she scowled.

“We’re running late, I’m afraid we must be off,” Mr. Edward said. “Take care not to fall out of trees—unless, of course, your learn to fly.”

* * *

That was the last day she met Mr. Edward and Barrow at the front gate. She missed them the next day—and the day after that.

“Maybe they’ve gone,” Mummy said. “People are allowed to travel, you know. Mr. Courtenay has the patience of a saint, but he is not obligated to be your little playmate.”

“He hasn’t gone. There’s lights on in the house.”

Mummy set her cup down. “There is such a thing as being _too_ observant, my dear. It’s not an entirely appealing trait in a young lady.”

“Can’t help it,” she muttered. 

* * *

The window was open, and the curtains drawn back—that never happened at the house next door. Birdie had barely finished whistling when Mr. Edward stuck his head out.

“Like to the lark at break of day arising,” he said, “from sullen earth sings hymns at Heaven’s gate.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Only that I’m glad for some company. How now, what news?”

She shrugged. “I wondered what happened to you.”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. There’s a bout of flu going around the college and Barrow has me quarantined.”

“Flu?” she asked, alarmed.

“It’s alright,” he said, hastily. “The bad old days are over, one hopes— not for me, I’m afraid. My lungs are no good—just like the rest of me.” He smiled, but it was sad. “The parts are all falling off this old wagon.”

“Because—of the war?”

“Mm, indeed,” he said, distantly, and she didn’t push. “Now I’m cooped up in here with nothing to do and Barrow’s got the nerve to bring me _scholarly_ _monographs,_ of all things. I’m bored silly. What a despot he is! I’m suffering under his tyrannical reign.”

“You could just leave. He’s your servant, you don’t have to listen to him.”

“Oh, but then he would worry, and I couldn’t bear that,” Mr. Edward sighed. He leaned his elbow against the window, and propped his chin in his hand. “Any more birds in the big beech tree?”

No, but there was a fox in Old Mrs. Gibbons’ garden, and they talked about foxes and badgers and other creatures for about an hour until Birdie had to go back in for supper, and he bid her a sad “au revoir, Mademoiselle,” before disappearing back into the dark of the house and shutting the window.

* * *

The next day she came to the window and their was music in the air—soaring strings and the crackle of the gramophone. Mr. Edward showed her the record envelope:

“Tuh—” she tried to sound it out, furrowing her brow. “Tuh-chay—”

“Tchaikovsky,” he supplied.

“He’s got an impossible name.”

“A linguistic handicap, I’m afraid, but a marvelous composer. One is swept away—” he emphasized his words with a sweep of his arm “—to worlds unknown. Barrow put me on to it, he’d never admit it but he’s so fond of fanciful madmen, and in that department you can’t go wrong with a son of Russia.”

“Is he a Bolshevik?”

“No, he’s dead,” he said, pleasantly. “Aren’t you a little young to be worried about Bolsheviks?”

“They’re in the paper.”

“Aren’t you well-read!”

“Daddy reads the paper,” she admitted. “I just—pick up a bit, here and there. I’ve—” suddenly, she felt very shy; but she pressed on: “—he finished, this morning, and I brought it—I thought you might like—”

“How very thoughtful,” he said, with a secretive smile. “What is going on in this world of ours?”

“Well—” she opened the paper, unfolding it with a snap— “Dock workers walk off the job as ne—ne-goh-tuh—”

“Spell it—ah, negotiations, two soft t’s in a row, it’s quite tricky.”

“—as _negotiations_ break down between…”

* * *

She left just as Barrow was arriving. The day was cooler than most, but he had a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“’Lo, Miss Birdie,” he mumbled, without bothering to ask why she was there or accuse her of anything at all.

“Are you quite well?” she asked.

He ignored her.

* * *

At first she thought she was dreaming—it was nighttime, the house was dark and quiet. She couldn’t imagine what woke her in the first place. She turned over, burying her face in her pillow—

There it was again—and insistent tap-tap-tap at the front door.

“For Christ _sakes_,” she heard Daddy grumble, and she saw the yellow glow of the lamps spring to life beneath her door. “Who in God’s name is making such a _racket_ at this hour—?”

Now it was an demanding bang-bang-bang on the door, and she tossed back the covers—

“Mr. Courtenay! You must be aware of the time—”

“Please—” she cracked open the door to her bedroom. Mr. Edward sounded afraid, like he was mixed-up again. “Come quickly—”

“Steady, man—”

“He’s very, very ill, you must come at once—”

“Who?” Daddy asked. “Barrow?”

“He’s not breathing right—we have to move, _quickly_—”

“Stay here,” Daddy said, firmly. “I’ll get my things.”

“I’ll go—”

“Stay _here_!” Daddy barked. “He’ll pull through, but you won’t—not if it’s catching.”

Mr. Edward said nothing—Birdie crept to the railing, and saw there was high color in his cheeks. She thought he might start shouting.

“Go, then,” he said, at last. “Just—”

“Penny—” Daddy started, but Mummy was coming down the stairs with his doctor’s kit.

“Go on, then,” she said. “Don’t dawdle.” She rubbed the sleep out of her eye, and then put her hand on Mr. Edward’s arm.

“Let’s have a cup of tea…”

* * *

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, too tired to go down and find out what was going on—but too anxious to go back to sleep.

She heard the front door open and shut, and sat up—footsteps on the hall—

“Is he—?”

“Barrow is doing well,” Daddy assured him. “As well as can be expected. I caught your girl Hanna headed to the market, she’s with him now—”

“I should—”

“You should get some rest,” Daddy said, firmly. “The guest bedroom is already made up. You’ll stay here at least a day.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Do you think I can’t recognize a gas injury?” Daddy asked, sharply. “You think I don’t know what happens to you if he’s catching?” His voice softened: “Give it a day.”

“Fine,” Mr. Edward said. He sounded—defeated. “Fine. I’ll—"

“Come on. I’ll show you upstairs.”

Daddy never realized how much his voice could carry—especially when he stood right outside her door.

“Now, I won’t ask you why your manservant was sleeping in your bed,” he said, like he was picking his words very, very carefully.

“I—I don’t know what you—I don’t like what you’re implying.” She’d never head Mr. Edward sound like that—harsh, like Barrow, but also thin and shaky and maybe a bit frightened.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m not asking either.”

“It’s—there’s nothing—he’s very ill. He’s more comfortable—I need him to recover in a timely manner—you’ve got a lot of nerve, you know—”

“Steady on, there’s no need—”

“That you would make such an accusation—”

“I’m not—”

“It’s beneath you—a man of your profession—who should know better than most that my condition—”

“I’m sorry,” Daddy cut him off. “You should be lauded for taking good care of your people. Please—forget I said anything.”

There was a long pause. “It’s forgotten.” Mr. Edward said, quietly. “I know how it must look, but—allowances must be made, in times of crisis. You understand.”

“I do,” Daddy said. “Better than you know.”

There was another stretch of silence, and she thought they had gone. Then— “He will get better. Things will go back to normal soon enough,” Daddy assured him.

“Then it’s back to the cot for him, I’m afraid,” he insisted. “No more lounging about.”

“I’m sure,” Daddy said—but he didn’t sound sure at all.

* * *

She didn’t see much of Mr. Edward, and by the time she got back home he’d gone— “I told him,” was all Daddy would say, shaking his head.

She was climbing the beech tree when she noticed the curtains were still open in the back bedroom. It was dark, but she could just see Mr. Edward sitting at the edge of the bed, holding Thomas’ limp hand in his own.

A lot of work, for one’s servant. She couldn’t imagine Mummy sitting at Maggie’s bedside and holding her hand.

* * *

“I suppose it’s different when you’ve been in a war,” Mummy said later, sorting through the mail. “One forms the most tremendous bonds.”

“How?”

“You know, through danger and a sort of—team effort, really—oh dear, a letter from Reggie, your father won’t like that…”

* * *

It was a week before she saw either of them again. She ran out of the house, skidding to a halt at the front gate.

“Barrow!” she said. “You’re better!”

He smiled at her, but it was false and strained. “Quite, Miss Lytton,” he said, stiffly. “Your father is an excellent physician.”

She frowned. “I hate being called Miss Lytton. It makes me sound like I’m in trouble.”

“Only one of us is in trouble right now,” he replied, then shut his mouth—like he hadn’t meant to say that at all.

“How do you mean?”

He touched the brim of his cap. “Tell your father I’ll be by to settle up, please. Good day, Miss Lytton,” he said, and hurried off.

* * *

Uncle Reggie was staying in the guest bedroom for a few days, and it put the whole incident entirely out of her mind.

Birdie always liked when her uncle came to visit, he was loud and rude and said _very_ interesting things. Daddy didn’t like him at all, even though Uncle Reggie was his younger brother, and had preferred Uncle George. Birdie didn’t remember her Uncle George, who had Died In The War, but Mummy said he’d been the baby of the family and his death was So Very Hard On Your Father. Daddy didn’t feel near as much fondness for Uncle Reggie, apparently, but Mummy insisted that they mend fences with ‘those of you still left’.

Uncle Reggie had only one arm Because Of The War, and Maggie helped him take his coat on and off. She didn’t like him either, Birdie could tell, but wouldn’t say why.

“It’s not my place, Miss,” she would mutter, and hurry away.

Now he was in the front parlor, with a glass filled with whisky (always whisky!), and he said to Daddy “Good Lord! Look at those two—swaning about like they own the place! Practically _necking_. Bold as brass. Someone ought to go teach them a lesson. What do you say, Liney?” he smiled, but it was mean, like bared fangs—“we’ve got three good hands between us, that’s more than a enough for the likes of _them_.”

Daddy went to the window, and something flicked across his face—too fast for her to puzzle out what it was—then went back to looking how he usually did when Uncle Reggie visited: a little annoyed. “Look again, before you make an ass of yourself.”

“Lionel!” Mummy said, “not in front of the child!”

Uncle Reggie was looking back out the window, lips pursed in thought. “Hmm. I see now. Even so, it’s not entirely _sound_, is it? A bit un-English, really, to go about it like that.”

“What would you have him do? He’s blind,” Daddy said, but there was an edge to his voice. “You should understand better than most.”

“Why? Because of this?” he gestured to his empty shirtsleeve, pinned to his chest, and the whisky sloshed in his glass. “I could thrash the likes of those delicate flowers any day.”

“Do shut up,” Daddy ordered, irritably, but Uncle Reggie continued:

“It’s only my left arm that’s gone, not my small arm.”

“Reginald!” Mummy yelped, high and shrill.

“—_I’m_ still a man with a proper sense of—”

“Birdie, go to bed,” Daddy said, low and angry.

“But I haven’t done anything—!”

Mummy was ringing the bell. “Maggie, make sure she goes to bed and stays there.”

She wanted to protest, to stay and say _that’s Mr. Edward and his man Barrow, they live next door, and they’re really quite nice _but somehow she was upstairs in her night-gown before she knew it.

* * *

She had to lie still for a long, long time to trick Maggie into think she was asleep, and she counted to one hundred backwards and forwards after she left to make sure the coast was clear.

Uncle Reggie was already up in his room, but Mummy and Daddy were still in the parlor, and the fire was burning low. They were talking in soft voices, and she crept to the door to listen in:

“It’s an unspeakable accusation to make, especially in front of a child. Aren’t all you army chaps supposed to be brothers?” Mummy was saying.

“_Supposed_ to be,” Daddy replied, darkly. “Talk like that gets people into trouble, but Reggie’s always been one to toss a bomb and not care where it lands.”

“Well, it’s terribly rude, but there’s no harm done,” Mummy said. “It’s not _true_, after all. Anyone who heard it would know it wasn’t true.”

Daddy didn’t say anything to that. He poured himself another drink.

“Lionel,” Mummy said, her voice suddenly urgent. “Reggie’s just talking nonsense. You know it’s not true.”

Daddy’s voice was soft, so soft she barely heard him say: “I can’t say I do.”

“You don’t think—” Mummy put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God! This whole time! And I never even thought—"

“I hope,” Daddy said, “that you wouldn’t be one to spread gossip about a friend.”

“I wouldn’t—I’m not going to—but to let them carry on like that—!”

“We’re not _letting_ anyone do anything,” Daddy said. “Nor are we preventing them. No good comes of meddling in these things. I think it best we let sleeping dogs lie.”

There was a long moment where neither spoke. “Ten years of marriage and you can still leave me reeling. I never took you for a libertine, dear.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t, rather. But after everything that’s happened—” he trailed off. “I’m inclined to look the other way on such a little indiscretion.”

“Would you call that sort of thing a ‘little indiscretion’?”

“Yes. I have been in _war_,” Daddy said, sharply. “A terrible, bloody, senseless war. I think the world would be better off with more unusual friends than bitter enemies. All that bloodshed…” He took a deep breath, and pressed on: “It maimed one of my brothers and killed the other—and did it the wrong way ‘round, if you ask me.”

“Don’t say that—”

“Reggie’s always been an ass. He never understood—he never tried to understand—” he paused. “George never was going to settle down you know. He wasn’t the marrying type.”

“You mean like...?” Mummy asked, and Daddy nodded. “I—didn’t know. I never guessed…”

“Yes, well, it’s not the sort of thing—” Daddy stopped, then turned towards the door—

“I must be dreaming,” he said, and Birdie knew she was in trouble. “Because I could have sworn you were sent to bed _hours_ ago.”

“Elizabeth Penelope Lytton!” Mummy was on her feet in an instant, scolding and shooing her up the stairs: “—certainly never taught you to creep around or eavesdrop look at the time never in all my days—”

“But—”

“Penny,” Daddy said, stopping Mummy short. He put hand up on her shoulder: “I’ll handle this.” He looked down, the dying fire catching the lines of his face: “Go on up, Birdie. You and I are going to have a little chat.”

She trudged up the stairs reluctantly, and waited for the flood when Daddy shut the door behind him—but the shouts never came. He pulled back the covers, and she climbed into bed obligingly as he tucked the sheets beneath her chin.

“I was very angry tonight,” he said, after a long pause.

“At me?”

He looked so sad. “No, my dear. Not at you—even if you can’t do as you’re told.”

“You’re angry at Uncle Reggie.”

“Precisely. I would ask you not to repeat any of the things you heard tonight. Your uncle is a very tiresome and small-minded sort of person. I would hate to see any of that in you.”

“If you don’t like him, why does he come to stay?”

Daddy put a hand to his forehead. “Because he is family, I’m afraid. Because the war made him a little funny, and he needs help—whether he admits it or not.”

Like Mr. Edward, who was afraid of loud sounds. A little funny in the head, seeing things that weren’t there. That made sense.

But—

“Daddy,” she asked. “What did you mean ‘let sleeping dogs lie’?”

He looked at her for a long moment, and she wondered if she _would_ be in trouble now. Instead, he sat at the edge of the bed, and looked at her very seriously.

“It means that some things are just best left alone,” he said. “A napping dog does no one any harm.”

“But doesn’t it wake up eventually?”

“It’s an idiom, my dear,” he said. “You’re thinking much too literally.” Then: “But yes. Eventually, I suppose. The point is that there’s no reason to go stirring things up just to be cruel. Sometimes things we don’t—_agree with_, let’s say—can just be left alone.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Teacher says we must always act when we see wrong. Like in the war—we had to help the Belgiums.”

“The _Belgians_, darling,” Daddy said, but he didn’t agree. “I’m afraid…” she thought, for the first time, that Daddy looked tired. “I’m afraid the world is much more complicated than your teacher has lead you to believe—terribly, terribly complicated.”

“How?”

“Much too much for bedtime,” he said, standing. He held his arms out and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d, “Oof! Past my bedtime as well, I’m afraid.”

“Daddy,” she called. He turned back, expectantly.

“What about right and wrong? How do you know when to…leave it be?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Sweet, clever girl. You know the difference already.” He bent over, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, pet. Sweet dreams.”

As he left, she realized she forgot to ask him what Uncle Reggie was so upset about in the first place.

_I’ll remember to ask tomorrow,_ she thought, as she drifted off.

But by the morning she’d forgotten entirely.

* * *

When Mr. Edward walked down a street he knew, he went a quick clip—tap tap tap with his stick, stopping to wish “Good Morning” to anyone who wished it first.

When Barrow went out on errands he didn’t say “Good Morning” or tip his hat, but if she whistled from up in the tree he would give her a sly smile and tap his nose.

But when Mr. Edward and Barrow walked down the street together they went slow, long strides matching up, and people had to part to make way for the two of them, arm in arm.

Now it was late, and misty rain turned the streetlights into yellow smudges in the gloom, and Barrow is holding an umbrella over the two of them while Mr. Edward leans on his arm. Normally, a servant holds the umbrella at arm’s length over his master and gets drenched in the process, but the two of them just barely fit beneath, arm in arm, steps matching…

“Penny for your thoughts,” she turned—Daddy put his newspaper down and was watching her gaze out the window.

“It’s nice to have someone to hold one’s umbrella,” she answered.

He glanced out the window, and smiled.

“We should all be so fortunate,” he agreed, and went back to his paper.


End file.
